PALE LIGHT SHONE from further down the corridor, and he loped towards it. He heard nothing ahead, but was cautious and ready to strike as he slipped around the corner. Kinro followed close.

The chamber within they found empty, save for a brass tripod of some sort, half as tall as Ulrem stood. Set in a crown at the very top of the device was a chunk of stone almost as large as his fist. It glowed with thin, steady light as they approached.

“A morning flower,” Kinro said. “I have read of these jewels. They are made in the troichish mines and mountain gardens.”

Ulrem did not read much. He had never heard of such a thing, but Kinro explained in quick, succinct sentences. Dwelling in places unlit by the sun except where their vast surface windows were cut into the living rock, the troichish dwarves used morning flowers and other such spell-graven stones to illuminate their dark tunnels in the steaming depths of the earth. They glowed throughout the night, but grew brightest just before dawn, signaling the change of day.

“Though I know not what such a stone is doing so far from its home,” Kinro said. “Why is it here, I wonder?”

“Perhaps to summon our quarry back from its prowling before dawn.” Ulrem probed at it with his fingers. There was no heat, despite the light. He picked it up. “Could use the light,” he said to Kinro’s questioning gaze.

“They’re with you, your ghosts. Even here. I can see them by the light of the morning flower. Who are they?”

“I told you not to speak of them.”

“Very well,” the smaller man said. “Now to find the creature.”

Evacuating the empty chamber, they caught sight of a curious pair of pale green eyes at the opposite end of the corridor. Twin lamps glimmered at them in the shadows just beyond a door that opened into the broken tower.

“The cat,” Kinro hissed. He charged forward, sword thrust out before him.

Ulrem, certain now that the cat was no fellow rogue, followed his companion, holding the morning flower aloft. Bouncing shadows jabbed left and right as they streaked down the stone stretch. The cat turned tail and fled into the ruined tower beyond. Though he was thirty paces away, Ulrem saw that it had been favoring a paw as it sprang into the dark.

He skidded to a halt with his hand upon the jamb of the door. Kinro stood before him, and together they peered into the shaft of the tower. The morning flower’s light revealed a narrow, winding set of stairs barely broad enough for two men abreast. The steps were choked with broken stonework and debris, but most of this appeared to be shoved off to one side. Ulrem had expected it to be impassable, as was the door to the tower below. He grunted as he caught sight of the patchy violet depths of the predawn vault above, littered with stardust.

“Someone has cleared a path,” Kinro whispered, starting forward.

“Best keep your tread light,” Ulrem said

They wound down into the depths of Brokewrist tower, each man grimly measuring his mortality.

Every step brought them closer to their doom, but neither balked, nor uttered a word of complaint. The drawing winds of combat and fate wound about their ankles, driving them deeper beneath the broken tower.

At last, the stairs settled out across an uneven stone floor of rough, ancient cobbles. An arched portal lay ahead, its heavy timber door hung slightly ajar. Enough for a cat, no doubt.

Leading, Ulrem put his head just beside the door, listening to the chamber beyond. At first, there was nothing. He willed his heart to be still, for his very blood to stop as he probed with his senses.

There.

Faint, but certain. Padded footsteps hurrying to and fro.

Holding a hand up to Kinro, who stood ready, Ulrem eased the door back. His companion swept into the room on noiseless feet, half-crouched and ready to deal death on the instant. Ulrem followed, Braveblade held in one hand, and the morning flower in the other.

The chamber was cold and damp. Water ran in thin rivulets down the brick walls, pooling where the floor was most uneven. The vaulted ceiling was just low enough to make Ulrem uncomfortable, but the more compact Kinro moved unobstructed. Ancient, unidentifiable rubble and ruck lay strewn about the walls: shelves or furniture or some such, long abandoned and soon forgotten. The signs of recent occupation were undeniable, however. Scraps of cloth, half-burnt discarded candles, and the unmistakable smell of unwashed man. And blood.

Ahead, a thin light played below another wooden door. They crept closer breathlessly, wolves prowling unwitting prey.

The door was suddenly flung open, revealing a tall, thin man wearing a black tunic and breeches. Or, perhaps, not a man.

Ulrem’s keen eyes resolved a distinct lack of facial features on the beast before him. In one instant, he could have been a handsome man. A lick of shadow crossing his nose transformed him into a hideously scarred thug. Even the lines of his body seemed unsettled. It wore two bags slung over its shoulders, and a traveler’s mantle with the hood thrown back.

“Demon,” hissed Kinro, his feet sliding into a defender’s stance.

“You intrude on my home!” the thing shouted. Its voice was neither male nor female, neither old nor young. It seemed to belong to no place or time, but flowed within the memory like water in the ear, aching and sweet. The thing stepped forward threateningly. It stood only five or six paces from the men now, holding long fingers that seemed to wind in the shadows like oily iron knives.

Ulrem nodded at the bags on its shoulders. “Seems it won’t be your home for long.”

“But I will leave it your grave!”

It lunged impossibly fast, raking out with ripping claws. Kinro caught this attack with a flashing parry, and the thing screeched as fingers bearing black eagle’s talons were severed, but no blood flowed from the wounds.

The creature barreled forward, trying to knock the small man aside. Kinro whirled, cutting again at its back with a swift return strike.

But its momentum was not slowed. Onto Ulrem it rushed, who until that moment had been resting Braveblade upon his shoulder and standing with the morning flower held at his waist. His confidence belied a deeper violence that unleashed itself at once, like a spring storm tearing down the mountain flanks of his distant home.

Driving back on one leg, he swept the blade down and buried it at the join of the creature’s neck and shoulder. With the other hand, he smashed it in the face with the morning flower, a blow so powerful that it sent the beast sprawling, torn free of Ulrem’s blade.

A mortal creature would have been instantly felled by such a strike. But this thing was no creature of flesh and blood. Righting itself, the thing emitted a terrible scream, and thin segmented legs of shadow erupted from its torso as its form melted and ran like vile tallow. It skittered towards the wall of the chamber, insectile and profane.

Up it clambered, faster than Ulrem could spring after it, its arms breaking and resetting into vicious stinging barbs. What had only seconds ago seemed so mundane in form had become a writhing nightmare. No, Ulrem thought as he watched the thing climb the wall in jerking movements. That would complicate matters.

From the ceiling it sprang at him. It was heavier than it looked, and he had to drop the morning flower to catch it by its still-human shoulders. The creature’s head suddenly became a bear’s, roaring and snapping long black fangs nearly close enough to shred his face. Insane rage boiled in its small, wide-spread eyes as it strained at him. Legs burst out gouts of black ichor along its sides, slashing at his unprotected forearms and clawing at his neck and shoulders.

“Abomination!” he barked, straining against its malicious grip. His corded muscles stood out harshly against his long bones as he fought, forcing it back inch by inch even as it tore at him. Finally, the demon’s hold broke and he slammed it onto the ground.

Seeing his opportunity, Kinro set about it at once, slicing and slashing at limbs that faded to smoke once severed. Kinro drove it away from Ulrem, who had involuntarily recoiled, patting at his bleeding head where chunks of hair had been torn loose.

Still it skittered around, sprouting more misbegotten limbs, taloned feet, and worse, while protecting its head and striking at Kinro with arms or pincers or writhing boneless limbs that appeared as fast as they could be cut asunder. Kinro was faster yet, staying just out of reach as he laid about with his curved sword, steadily forcing it back towards the room it had burst from.

Ulrem hated creatures of sorcery. Born of the Oron, whose kings had been honorable unto the last, and where the folk had remembered the truths of the past, Ulrem had been steeped in the lore of the shadowspawn and nightmares that hunted men. He knew that such creatures could carry off a man’s soul to the hells. Could deny him an honorable death. The Lionborn would slave for no demon, in life or otherwise.

“By Imaahis!” he thundered, storming back into the melee. The oath changed something about the space, charged it in some way that made Kinro stumble. The shadows grew long, the stones sharper. Power surged into the vaulted chamber and Ulrem brought Braveblade up above his head to deliver a killing stroke. Light emanated from the ring on his finger like lightning forged into white gold.

“Ulrem the Inheritor!” the demon cawed, its head twisting around to face him. That voice was painfully familiar—his father’s own. A voice long dead, in lands far away. His heart ached to hear that voice; had yearned for it over long years. “Spare your good da, lad. I will tell you a secret! One I should have told you, before you killed us.”

Ulrem heard none of it. He brought the blade down with all the force of his iron arms, cutting through the wavering, shadowy limbs and splitting the skull of the dread beast. So powerful was his strike that it tore the creature in half. Braveblade skittered sparks across the cobbles below.

Then the chamber was silent, save for Kinro’s panting. Ulrem was wound too tight to breathe, every ounce of his resolution holding firm until he was sure the enemy was dead. The ring seethed on his finger, eager for blood.

Gradually, the air returned to the room, leaving both men heaving, collecting their wits.

“I didn’t think we could kill it,” Kinro said at last.

“Everything dies.”

“Even the beasts that crawl out of the hells, it seems.” Kinro shook his head in wonder. He sheathed his blade with smooth grace. “It’s last words—what could it have known?”

“Nothing that would bring back the dead. Nothing that would absolve the damned,” Ulrem growled.

He wiped ichor off his sword with a scrap of cloth.

“A demon, then,” Kinro said.

“Check that room beyond. Perhaps there is someone yet alive to rescue, or some sign of its origin.” He crouched beside the corpse and watched it fade to smoke. Eventually, he bandaged his dripping wounds.